


crossing lines

by lairdofthelochs



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, First Time, M/M, Tommy Shelby from Alfie Solomons' POV, because we need to see Alfie interact with Charles right?, brief mention of Alfie dealing with kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lairdofthelochs/pseuds/lairdofthelochs
Summary: There are things that Alfie feels when he’s with Tommy—things which he never really understood before today. But today, God himself, He spoke to Alfie. And just like before, God said, “Alfie, you were meant to have these things.” Alfie never knew what it fucking meant before, but he knows now.





	crossing lines

**Author's Note:**

> Written purely from Alfie's POV, so I tried to give him the same voice as he has in the show. Really sorry in advance if it came off really hammy. It reads better if you have Tom Hardy's Alfie voice in your head while going through the fic, I think.

Tommy Shelby is not a friend.

He’s not exactly an enemy either, is he?

Alfie doesn’t fucking know what Tommy quite is, to be fair. He’s a really fucking pretty boy—no, hold on— that ain’t quite right, innit? Alfie’s got to start over, get his thoughts front to back, do things proper when it comes to Thomas fucking Shelby.

So.

Here goes.

Tommy Shelby is a beautiful man. No shame in saying that out loud, is there? And maybe that’s what fucking caught Alfie off guard, innit? Because Alfie’s always told himself never to underestimate people, and yet—

And _yet._

Alfie is the one supposed to be doing the fucking observing, right? So when Tommy fucking Shelby strutted into Alfie’s bakery in Camden Town, looking like some kind of emotionless Brummie prick, with those _really_ fucking pretty eyes— it just made Alfie want to push all of Tommy’s buttons, want to find out what makes him snap. Darby Sabini had the same kind of arrogance in his aloofness; in the fucking elegant way he carries himself, yeah? But Tommy – no, he ain’t elegant at all, is he?

No, he’s fucking ethereal and painfully human at the same time.

That’s what he fucking is.  

The first telegram was just a ‘hello’, and Alfie’s told Tommy that as much. In an Alfie Solomons sort of way, Tommy’s lucky if that’s only a quarter true. What Alfie really wanted was to see what Tommy had to offer. He wanted to see who Tommy Shelby was, and ain’t he fucking surprised by what he saw?

Tommy’s _only little_ , innit? Alfie still stands by this first impression— it ain’t easy to shift his opinion once he’d made his fucking mind up. So. He’s only little, but his ambitions are fucking massive. Which makes Alfie wonder what drives Tommy to keep going on, even when he got battered up like that, swollen eye and all. Does the man even eat? (Not much from what Alfie’s seen.) Drink? (Yes, but why does he prefer the brown stuff? Seriously, _why._ ) Does he fuck? (Alfie ain’t sure. Tommy’s got a kid though, so he must’ve fucked someone, right?).

Well. That’s fucking irrelevant anyway.

What’s relevant, though, was for a man Tommy’s age and to display that much balls – it ain’t surprising, innit, to find out later that Thomas fucking Shelby is a fucking war hero?

Talk about underestimation, eh?

Tommy’s entered Alfie’s bakery like he’d survived some shite battle, hadn’t he? With that bruise that hadn’t even healed properly, with that fucking blood-speckled eye, with that split lip. Like he was proud of it. All Alfie wanted to do was to peel that cold exterior off his fucking face, really. Take off that fucking mask, who is Tommy Shelby? Alfie swore he could see Tommy’s lips almost tugging upwards as Alfie droned on and on about the rum, like he was having a laugh. The fucking audacity! Sabini would have balked. Others would have cowered in fear, yeah? But no, only Tommy fucking Shelby would try to hide an amused smile, that little Brummie fucker.

Still.

Alfie was disappointed when Tommy said ‘not bad’ to the brown stuff, because, really? It was fucking horrible, that stuff was. Was Tommy Shelby another bootlicker, then? Alfie definitely had secured a firm place for Tommy in that category, until he pulled the fucking gun to Tommy’s face. That should teach ‘im a lesson. But hold the fucking phone, Tommy didn’t flinch, did he? No, he just kept staring daggers at Alfie, like this was another day in the fucking life. So Alfie was the one holding the gun, yeah? So why did it feel like he was the one being sized up?

Tommy had swallowed his pride more than Alfie in coming to Camden Town, more so than when Alfie sent him that fucking telegram. Tommy needed help, and if that bruised face was not an obvious sign enough that he needed Alfie’s fucking help, God knows what else was. Then Tommy started pointing out the obvious about Sabini and his bookies. That _yes,_ Alfie needed Tommy’s help too. No one has dared to be that fucking forthright with Alfie before and still live to see the day, yeah? It was amazing how Tommy came to see Alfie anyway, knowing full well that should he fail to sweet talk Alfie here, he would fucking die.

As if he had nothing to lose, and everything to sacrifice.

As if he was already half in fucking love with easeful death, that fucking idiot.

Alfie ain’t that civilised, but he still knows his Keats from his Byron, yeah? But he digresses. It’s not like Tommy fucking Shelby is turning Alfie into some sappy fucking romantic, waxing fucking poetics, innit?

He’s talking about Tommy fucking Shelby here, alright? The famous Peaky Blinder? Not Michelangelo’s David.

Let’s make that fucking clear.

This was Tommy Shelby. This was the same Peaky Blinder who was unfazed by Alfie’s gun, who made Alfie feel obliged to describe the vivid scene in detail, should he pull the trigger and blow Tommy’s fucking brains out. Let’s talk about skulls and blood and Mandalay and Timbuktu, anything but the matter at hand, eh? Anything but Sabini, anything but how Alfie had lost control of his territories. This was his last bastion of pride, this fucking office was. So why did it feel like Tommy was seamlessly wrestling it from Alfie’s grasp with just one fucking look, and the fucker didn’t even have to say a word?

Fucking ridiculous.

And then, of course Tommy’s nose had to start bleeding in front of Alfie. What was Alfie supposed to do, eh? Wipe it off him? Tommy didn’t even budge, not until Alfie put in the last word, like nothing was happening. He didn’t even use the handkerchief Alfie threw him, did he? Proud little fucker. Fucking Sabini and his henchmen, what gave them the fucking right to do Tommy in like that? He’s only little, _yeah,_ but fucking hell mate. _Fucking hell._ It made Alfie think things. Feel things. In a split second, Alfie’s twisted mind did start to wonder how it would feel like to hurt Tommy even more, to be the one leaving them fucking bruises on Tommy’s skin; to mark him as Alfie’s.

Sabini might have taken over Alfie’s territories, yeah? But he wasn’t about to let Sabini mark Tommy Shelby again. No one should, innit?

No one but Alfie.

That’s non- _fucking_ -negotiable.

Michael once asked whose side Alfie was on. Michael, the young’un, that sweet fucking child, who has yet so much to learn. Michael knew so little when Tommy knew so much. So imagine Alfie’s disappointment when Tommy started harping on and on about crossing lines – because this was Tommy fucking Shelby, innit? Surely he should know better.

Tommy Shelby, of all people, talking about crossing lines?

Un- _fucking_ -believable.

Tommy Shelby, who outmanoeuvred Alfie with the hand grenade bluff. The same man who admitted that he had nothing to lose, and everything to sacrifice. Where was that Tommy Shelby now? Still in there somewhere, judging from the way he caught Alfie with the egg business. That was class; that was clever. But talking about crossing lines, like he was some patron saint of the underworld’s moral compass? Putting himself on a pedestal like the fucking Pope? Nah, that ain’t right, mate. Alfie felt that he needed to make Tommy see, there and then. Because it fucking felt like Tommy had lost sight of who he really was, and who he could be. He’d gone soft, Tommy had. Alfie can’t have that.

Fine— losing Charlie, losing his little boy— it was a fucking awful thing, yeah? But talking about crossing lines?

Nah.

If someone were to ask Alfie why he’d admitted that he’d _known_ about little Charlie when he really hadn’t a clue, Alfie wouldn’t be able to give a straight answer. So maybe yeah, he’d felt guilty— the boy was never part of the deal, but it’s collateral damage, innit? Fuck. Maybe he’d said what he’d said because he wanted to see Tommy break. And oh, how Alfie had broken Tommy with that lie. How Alfie had broken Tommy Shelby, and how he had put him back together again.

It felt fucking good, mate.

He’d kept his cool, Tommy had, all this time. And Alfie too, had kept his cool in all the years he’d known Tommy. Yes, he’d shouted at Tommy’s underlings, at Arthur, at Ollie in front of Tommy – but never at Tommy himself, yeah? But Tommy had never looked more feral in that moment, all blind rage and fucking fury—and Alfie couldn’t help but yell at him to make him see.

It wasn’t fucking justified, innit? Not when they are who they are.

And then Tommy just ended up staring at Alfie, silenced, stunned.

To see Tommy there, looking up at him defiantly – while at the same time seeing how everything finally made sense—it was a victorious moment for Alfie. Because he’d outmanoeuvred Tommy Shelby, once and for all.

Alfie let slip the earnest confession about not knowing anything about Charlie, to soften the blow. The least he could do, right? After all that?

But of course Tommy had to go and say things like, “I know,” like he needed to have the last word. “I saw,” Tommy’d said. Fucking hell, mate. That was so fucking unnecessary. Alfie was the one who ended up looking like an idiot, gawping over Tommy like that. Tommy even had turned away, chasing after Michael, to do God knows what. Not even another spare look at Alfie.

Well, that was fucking rude, innit? Because maybe Alfie wasn’t as in control of the situation as he’d thought. It had taken Alfie all the fucking nerves in his muscles to stop himself from hauling Tommy back. Not for another bloody fight, but to kiss that fucking distracting mouth. If only to shut him up— to silence the words that Tommy hadn’t even spoken out loud, but ones that Alfie could hear anyway. For saying the things that no one had ever fucking dared to tell him.

Sometimes Alfie noticed Tommy’s fleeting glances up down at his lips, yeah? He’s got eczema, he’s got sciatica. He’s got everything working wrong in his body, but he’s got eyes. He’s long-sighted, but he ain’t blind. Not yet, anyway.

Once, it was probably a fucking coincidence, innit? Twice, maybe Tommy was just trying to peel his gaze away from Alfie’s eyes. But the third, fourth, fifth time— Alfie wondered if something else was fucking going on. But Alfie fucking Solomons has no time for lust, has he? That ain’t his style. No, who would ever want an old man with a cantankerous temper? Fucking wishful thinking, innit?

Tommy’s impertinence in putting on the hand grenade bluff— Alfie would be lying if he said he wasn’t turned on. But he’d feigned ignorance then. Insisted that Tommy sign the bloody paper mulishly, pointing at the fucking signature line with his fat fucking finger, trying to prove a point. But fucking hell he was good, Tommy was. There wasn’t any flourish in his demands, like Sabini. There was desperation there, clear as mud. But Tommy being Tommy, he held himself together, didn’t he? He knew what he fucking wanted, plain and simple, so he asked for it straight up, man to man. Alfie could see through his bluff – he knew, he _knew_ there was no hand grenade, but he wondered how far Tommy would take this fucking enterprise.

He took it far enough, and his affirmation to Alfie’s statement – “Like I’m digging now,” sealed the deal for Alfie.

In that moment, Alfie had never wanted anyone else on his side but Tommy Shelby.

So Michael talked about taking sides, and Alfie’s side has always been no one but his own, yeah? So it’s fucking rude and irritating, now, to realize that Tommy is just like him.

That Tommy Shelby is on no one’s side but his own, too.

Tommy fucking Shelby, the tunneller who fucking dug his way out and still looked so good doing it. He was begging, but he was begging on his own terms, and fucking hell he was good, ain’t he? Alfie was well impressed. He knew he liked Tommy for a reason— and he knew Tommy would be able to take care of himself. Even if Alfie was a tad naughty and snuck around behind him. Tommy would be able to handle it, wouldn’t he?

Of course he fucking did, until little Charlie disappeared. Then Tommy fucking lost it, and wasn’t that something? Even if only for a short time, but this time Alfie really pushed his buttons. Charlie hadn’t been part of the fucking deal, and Alfie was sorry it turned out that way, yeah? It was shite, innit? Tommy knew Alfie was sorry even if he didn’t say it. Still, in some fucking twisted way Alfie was glad that it had happened, because now they understand each other. They had that fucking talk, they fucking yelled at each other, threw some punches here and there, and maybe Alfie lost a good man that day. But he was still glad that it turned out the way it did, because otherwise they wouldn’t be where they are today.

 _Today,_ though.

Alfie couldn’t really fucking recall how they got here today, to be fair.

Today, Tommy has some other fancy plans up his sleeve, and Alfie wonders how it will all play out. Most of the Shelbys are now in jail. Little Charlie’s in Tommy’s arms. And Alfie’s a guest in Tommy’s stately home; a wandering Jew.

Fucking hell.

Alfie has never expected this sight.

Tommy looks dishevelled, like he hasn’t slept in ages. It’s been weeks since they last saw each other. When Tommy spoke to him on the phone, he hadn’t imagined it would be this bad. Tommy’s maid complained to Alfie that he hasn’t been taking his morphine. Fuck morphine, Alfie thinks. Tommy needs a good fucking taking care of, nice and proper. All this while Alfie’d been worried sick about Charles, about the kid he’d never met – but it looks like Charlie’s doing better than his father. Fancy that, eh? Probably Alfie shouldn’t have come here after all.

But then Tommy hands Charles over to him, like he knows fuck all about looking after babies. Fine, not a baby. An infant. Toddler. Semantics, innit? Close-up, little Charlie has his father’s eyes. Alfie wonders if he’s going to be just as intelligent. Tommy is fussing over some paperwork on his desk, while Alfie shifts Charlie’s weight between one arthritic arm to the other. “Yer a heavy little thing, aintcha, Charlie?” Alfie asks, while Charlie frowns at him. Curious, maybe. At least he doesn’t cry. Most people would run away at the sight of Alfie, yeah? Not Charlie. No, he’s laughing at Alfie. Brave lad. Just like his dad, eh? Alfie tries frowning back at Charlie, to see if it would startle him. No dice. Instead, now he’s trying to take Alfie’s hat off with his tiny hands. Charlie must be wondering why this hat looks nothing like his dad’s peaky cap. And why is this face all hairy? And round? And scaly? Charlie starts to tug at his beard, like Alfie is some kind of grumpy Santa Claus, dressed like a fucking grim reaper.

The same maid knocks at the door, telling them that it’s Charlie’s bedtime. She gives Alfie a disapproving look as he passes Charlie over to her, so he narrows his eyes at her and grunts in return. Charlie starts to whine. He doesn’t want to go to bed yet. Or maybe he likes Alfie too much. Shouldn’t they be afraid of strangers at this age? Charlie’s hands continue to try to reach for Alfie’s beard. The maid ignores Charlie’s cries and takes him away anyway, despite the shrill noise Charlie’s making.

It’s nice to be wanted, Alfie supposes. He knows fucking zilch about parenting, and his own father was fucking useless, so— no, he doesn’t think he’s equipped for this kind of thing. Tommy, on the other hand.

“You look fucking awful, mate,” Alfie says, once Charlie’s cries have completely faded away in the background.

Tommy rubs his eyes with the edge of his thumb and lets out a yawn. “Seen worse days, Alfie,” he replies, voice croaky. He smokes too much, Tommy does. Alfie knits his brows together, studying Tommy’s silhouette in the half-light of his office. He thinks he’s seen enough today, so he should be on his way.

“Surely not at this hour?” Tommy asks, as if offended that Alfie wants to leave.

Alfie purses his lips and shrugs. “Don’t want to fucking overstay my welcome now, do I?”

“You could stay, if you want. It’s late,” Tommy sighs. “We have a guest bedroom,” he adds casually, because, of course he fucking does, innit? Tommy’s never extended an overnight invitation, before. Not when the other Shelbys are here, when Alfie last came for a visit.

Well.

It’s just fucking convenient, innit?

It’s not like Alfie’s a great sleeper anyway. Especially not in a bed that is way too fancy for his tastes, covers made from Egyptian linen, smell of cloying roses and lavender. It’s too fucking quiet in here, save for that fucking annoying clock, ticking, ticking, _ticking_. His gun is under his pillow. Alfie’s head feels like it’s about to fucking explode if he stays in this room one more second. 

Fuck this.

He decides to do a nocturnal tour around _la maison Shelby,_ sans cane. Much quieter that way, innit? At least this ain’t one of them fancy manors with fucking separate wings. Or maybe it is, but Alfie’s just too fucking uncultured or ignorant about this place. Maybe Tommy’s told him, but he just didn’t listen. He knows, though, that he’s walked right up to Tommy’s bedroom door. He doesn’t fucking know why he’d come here— blame his feet, innit? They’re the ones who’d taken Alfie here, yeah?

The light’s still on, though.

So Alfie knocks.

He could hear shuffling movements behind the door.

Fucking hell. Why on earth did he knock? Too late to turn back now, innit?  Alfie Solomons never fucking knocks, so why start now? He usually would just stumble in, wouldn’t he? No warning, nothing. But this is Shelby country, innit? When in Rome, and all that? _Civility,_ he rebukes himself. He’s a guest, after all. And Tommy’s his generous host. He should at least be respectful of that. 

But when Tommy opens the door, Alfie thinks his breath had been knocked out of him. No suit, no waistcoat. Just an unbuttoned white shirt, an undershirt, and half-unbuttoned trousers, hanging dangerously low on Tommy’s hips. Alfie frowns and lets out a grunt, before looking past Tommy’s face. Straight at the curtains far behind Tommy’s head, at least a good few yards away, pretending to try and make out the patterns on the drapes. Alfie opens his mouth, wants to say, “Maybe this ain’t a good idea, eh?”—but Tommy beat him to it.

But it wasn’t what Tommy was going to say at all.

No.  

Instead, Tommy says, “Hello, Alfie.”

 _Hello, Alfie._ Two fucking words. He’d only said two words, didn’t he? But Tommy’s eyes – those fucking bewitching eyes, they’re telling Alfie a different story. More than the two fucking words he’d just said two seconds ago. And the expression on his face, that _fucking_ expression. It’s the same face Tommy wore when they first met, in that office in Camden Town, in what felt like fucking forever ago. He doesn’t have bruises now, but Alfie knows he’s hurt. He’s in pain, Tommy is. From the scars that Tommy doesn’t wear on his skin, but in his soul.

He hears what Tommy’s saying, even though he’s not really saying it.

_Help me._

But he’s too fucking proud to say it.

So maybe Alfie’s enabling him, when he steps into Tommy’s bedroom. When Tommy grasps Alfie’s head with one hand; his waist in another. When Tommy wrestles Alfie to the ground like he wants to fight him, like the day they fought in the warehouse. He’s angry and he wants to hurt somebody, and who’s a better candidate for that than Alfie? Because he’s fucking there, innit? Because he’s big and he’s strong and he could take it. Because Alfie would fight back, wouldn’t hold any punches.

They struggle like that against one another for several minutes, on Tommy’s bedroom floor. There is nothing elegant about this spectacle. Limb against limb, skin against skin. The smell of musk and sweat and aftershave and whiskey permeate through the air. None of that lavender, rose, jasmine nonsense, yeah? And somehow along the way some of Alfie’s buttons had come off, as he straddles Tommy on the floor. Keeping his hips in place, firmly between Alfie’s thighs. Tommy’s hips bucked upwards against Alfie’s, and he knows what Tommy wants. There’s no fucking way that Tommy doesn’t know how he’s affected Alfie either. It’s obvious, innit? But Alfie ain’t givin’ in that easily. Not just yet.

Tommy tries to retaliate but Alfie easily overpowers him— leaning down and locking Tommy’s slim wrists with one hand, just above his head. Alfie splays a hand against Tommy’s neck, pressing against his windpipe. Tommy gasps, but he’s no longer fighting Alfie. Like he’s succumbing to Alfie’s whims, like he’s all for Alfie’s taking. There will be a palm print there tomorrow.

A mark.

Alfie loosens his grip on Tommy’s trachea, his eyelids fluttering at the onslaught of air rushing back into his lungs. He keeps his gaze steady into Alfie’s now, as if daring him to do something else, to surprise him, to do better.

So maybe Alfie’s enabling him, when he slips a hand between their hips, underneath the band of Tommy’s trousers. When he leans down and presses his lips against Tommy’s, teeth clacking fiercely against one another. Tommy groans, as if he’s expected that this would happen.

Alfie breaks away first, and decides that Tommy doesn’t need a pity fuck for pity’s sake. No, he fucking needs more than that, innit? So he pulls his hand out from Tommy’s pants and starts to kiss Tommy in earnest, like he really means it, because fucking hell, he _really_ fucking means it. He could taste the smoke in Tommy’s breath, whiskey on Tommy’s tongue. And when Alfie runs out of breath, he breaks away again, but only to kiss the scar on Tommy’s left cheek, just below the sharpness of his jutting cheekbones. He kisses the underside of Tommy’s jaw, the column of his throat, his collarbones, sucking slightly at the skin there. He marks every patch of skin, kissing every freckle that he could find. Does Tommy know how fucking beautiful he is? Alfie couldn’t find the words to tell him, so instead he maps every contour of Tommy’s body with his fingers. Carefully, tenderly, with all the gentleness he could afford in the world.

Alfie once told Tommy that God once spoke to him, and He’d said, “Alfie, you were meant to have these things.” And just to be certain, he’d asked Tommy if it’s alright, if Alfie _really_ could have him— and Tommy’d said _yes._

So when he finally enters Tommy, Alfie makes sure Tommy knows that this ain’t just a fucking business transaction. This ain’t just his fucking body. This is his heart, yeah? His soul? Maybe Alfie’s always known this fact, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

Because that would be _crossing a line_ , innit?

It’s probably always been there, and it grew and grew, until it can no longer be contained. But he’s definitely crossed that fucking line now, Alfie has. He’s bared his heart open so Tommy could sink his teeth into. Maybe one day he will regret it. But seeing Tommy like this, writhing underneath him, gasping his name like Alfie’s a God that Tommy prays to— he feels invincible.

When Tommy begs him to go harder on him, to hurt him, to stop being so gentle, the more Alfie wants to defy him. Tommy’s expected roughness and violence, and yes, Alfie agrees that there’s a time for that. But not now.

Not today.

When he looks up into Tommy’s eyes again, he could see surprise there. He could see fascination, because this isn’t what Tommy’s expected of him. Amidst the tears, the blue within the blue. In Tommy’s eyes, Alfie could see God, and God is singing to him.

There are things that Alfie feels when he’s with Tommy—things which he never really understood before today. But today, God himself, He spoke to Alfie. And just like before, God said, “Alfie, you were meant to have these things.”

Alfie never knew what it fucking meant before, but he knows now.

Today he’s crossed a line. Maybe it’s a different line to what Tommy’s been talking about, but it’s a line all the same, yeah? So maybe he’s crossed a line, but if it meant that he could have Tommy by his side, it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

He’ll have to deal with the repercussions tomorrow, won’t he?

But tomorrow’s another day that hasn’t arrived, right?

And that’s fucking okay.

\--

 

.end

**Author's Note:**

> I just have a lot of feelings about these two. As you can probably tell.


End file.
